The Mak Collection (49 page)

Damn him,
she thought.
Why of all the men in the world do I have to be hung-up on this guy? Why? This is so stupid.

Makedde felt a strong urge to see him,
now
. She wanted to throw some clothes on and march right down to the Renaissance Hotel.

She knew she shouldn’t do that.

Makedde had many months ago decided that Andy Flynn was a negative influence in her life. She knew he was bad for her. It wasn’t that he was a bad person. He wasn’t bad at all. He was a nice enough guy, and that seemed to make her dilemma worse. The problem was that Andy only seemed to appear in times of trouble, and he did not make those times better, he made them worse. Nice guy or not, she knew that. And yet…

And yet it was so much easier to dislike him when there were continents between them. Now he was near, impossible to ignore, and she was going to pieces.

My father is right. I have to stay away from him. Those miles of distance were there for a reason.

An hour later Makedde entered the Harbourside Renaissance Hotel on West Hastings Street. She had bolted out of bed, thrown on some clothes and a bit of make-up and driven herself over. She feared something like that would happen. She knew her weaknesses too well.

She had rationalised her actions like a student with a Masters in Selfdelusion and had convinced herself that she just wanted to talk to Andy and find out what was going on. He had something important to tell her, and she needed to know what it was. It was that simple. Perhaps she’d find that they would chat for a while and it would demystify everything. Then that
would be it. She would know. Finally she would have peace. She would sleep better than she had since his first phone call from Quantico. Hell, she would probably sleep better than she had since they’d met.

Makedde walked up to the reception desk.

“Excuse me. Hello.”

The young receptionist looked up. She had a sweet cherub-like face, and Mak couldn’t help noticing she was growing out a really bad perm. The young woman’s brown hair was shiny and straight until it reached the level of her ears, and then it exploded into fuzzy curls. Mak’s eyes were drawn to it in a way that made her wonder if she had been a hair stylist in a past life.

“Good evening. How may I help you?”

“Could you call one of your guests, please? The name is Flynn. Andrew Flynn. Room three-thirty. I also wanted to make sure that he hasn’t ordered an early wake-up or something. I don’t want to disturb him.”

“Certainly, just one moment, please.”

Mak looked up at the wall clock behind reception. It was just after eleven. That wasn’t too bad. Andy was a bit of a night owl, like she was. If she knew anything about him at all he wouldn’t be heading for bed for some time, and nor would he mind her dropping by. And besides, he had said to call him anytime. It was just that she happened to be calling from the hotel lobby. A small issue, really.

“Ahh, Flynn. Yes. If you would like to use the white phone over to my left, you can dial zero three three zero and you will be put directly through to his room. He hasn’t put in a wake-up call.”

“Thanks for that.”

Makedde made her way over to the phone, dialled and heard it ring in Andy’s room. She had to admit it was a bit weird. At first she wasn’t going to speak to him at all, and now this. She knew that it wouldn’t be a stretch to suggest that her insomnia might be affecting her decision-making processes.

No answer.

“If you would like to leave a voice mail message for room three three zero—”
the answering service told her.

She hung up.
Damn.

Makedde walked back to the desk.

“Your friend wasn’t answering?” the young lady asked.

My friend.

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Would you like me to leave a message?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll just wait for him for a few minutes perhaps, seeing as I’m already here.”

“Please make yourself comfortable,” she said and pointed in the direction of the waiting area.

Makedde sat down in an armchair in a far corner of the hotel lobby while she decided what to do next. She was sure she would see him tonight. From her vantage point, she had a good view of the sliding doors that
opened onto the street and the elevators that led to hundreds of guestrooms, as well as the hotel’s front reception desk. There were some ersatz fern-like plants around the armchair, and when she sat back, they offered a hint of camouflage.

For a moment she felt like a private investigator performing surveillance, a parallel she found amusing. Some part of her relished the thought of surprising him this way, though she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because he had surprised her?

Makedde waited, half-heartedly reading through the
Vancouver Province
for the second time that day, and after only five minutes, a familiar silhouette grabbed her attention. She sat upright. A man had entered the lobby—a tall man in a dark suit, his posture slightly hunched with fatigue. He had short hair, very short at the sides—a cop haircut. She hadn’t seen the face, but she was sure it was him.

I knew he wouldn’t be far.

A sickly delirium sent a rush of blood to her head. She suddenly felt hot and uncomfortable in her clothes.

Andy.

Her heart pounded.

He walked up to the reception desk, said something to the clerk, and she gave him a room key. Mak noticed there was no nod in her direction from the cherub-faced clerk, but she instinctively stood up and took a step forward.

Then he turned around.

Wrong man.

Mak sank back into her seat behind the plastic fern, but she’d already caught the stranger’s eye. He had probably felt her eyes on him before he even turned. The man smiled at her from across the lobby, and Mak responded with a cool nod. She looked down at her newspaper again, heart still rushing, now more with embarrassment than anticipation.

Oh, no.

He was walking towards her.

“Good evening,” the man said as he approached. He had a French-Canadian accent. She noted his rough skin, and the smell of cheap cologne. His eyes were friendly as they regarded her, but she returned his salutation with polite reserve. She didn’t want to be bothered if she could avoid it.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked.

Makedde delivered a smile. “Yes, I am, thank you.” She offered a polite and dismissive smile, and pretended to be absorbed in her paper.

She felt his eyes on her for what seemed like far too long, and then he said, “Well, good evening.”

“Yup. You too. Bye.” She didn’t look up for fear that it might encourage him.

When he was a safe distance away, she glanced around the lobby. Still empty. Well, if Andy wasn’t answering his phone, where was he? She felt stupid sitting there—really, really stupid. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to get out. Makedde stood and crossed
the room, and just as she turned to pass the reception desk and make her way out, she spotted a familiar face.

Oh dear.

“Dr Harris. Hello…”

This looks bad.

“Makedde,” he said. He seemed suitably surprised to see her in the hotel lobby. “Well. Good evening.”

Dr Harris was smartly dressed in a pressed shirt and slacks. She took in his appearance more thoroughly on this occasion than she had when they first met, distracted as she was by Andy and then Roy. Bob Harris was in his fifties and appeared to take pretty good care of himself, but his face told a thousand tales. He had a mass of crow’s-feet, and two deep worry lines between his hazel eyes. His eyelids were hooded and drooped. Makedde thought that he had a kind face, but a weary one.

She smiled at him, hoping she didn’t look too red-faced.

“Are you looking for Andy?” Dr Harris asked her.

“Andy? Yeah. Kind of…”

“I just left him at the Sports Bar around the corner.” He paused, and seemed to take a quick mental snapshot of her face, her body language, her words. Perhaps the intense scrutiny was only in her imagination. “Is he expecting you?” he asked. “Because I can’t imagine him standing you up to hang out at a bar.”

“No, no. It was a surprise visit actually. I was just in the area and I thought I’d drop by…”

Oh, what an absolutely moronic thing to say, Mak
.

But at least she knew where Andy was. He was less than a block away, slugging back beers with his mates. What mates? She wondered who else he might know in Vancouver.

“Would you like me to go and get him for you?” Dr Harris offered.

“Oh no. No, that’s okay. Thanks anyway. I might swing by, but I really ought to be getting home soon. It’s late.”

He nodded. He looked like he needed a good night’s sleep as much as she did.

“I enjoyed your presentation, by the way. It was fascinating.”

“Thank you.”

“Have a good evening,” she said, finishing with a polite smile. She walked away, leaving the newspaper on a chair as she passed.

Makedde had seen the Sports Bar when she drove past—the neon beer signs and mirrors bearing nostalgic Coca-Cola advertisements through the large panes of glass. It was the kind of distinctly North American establishment where you were asked if you wanted curly fries or coleslaw with your slab of steak. There were several enormous television screens broadcasting a football game, and the place was full of boisterous men, high on sports and alcohol.

She couldn’t see Andy, but went inside anyway and took a seat in a quiet corner.

A waitress came over. “What can I getcha?”

“Just mineral water, thanks.”

The waitress frowned, then followed it up with an artificial service-smile when she remembered her occupational requirements.

Don’t be so uptight, Makedde. You’re here to sneak up on an ex-lover, after all…
“Actually, uh, make it a Slippery Nipple.”

The waitress smiled. “Now you’re talking.”

Okay, the plan: Slug back drink. Feel relaxed. Find Andy. Talk. Go home. Sleep.

Fine.

She tried watching the television, but she still couldn’t calm the churning in her guts. She needed that drink.

She tried to put herself in Andy’s shoes. He did call her, right? So what was she nervous about? Perhaps her arriving unannounced was a bit strange but that only mattered if she actually decided to make contact. She could still walk away.

By the time she’d finished her second Slippery Nipple, Mak had well and truly graduated from the initial, mellow bliss, and sunk deep into a tipsy melancholy.

Where is he anyway? The men’s room?

The waitress drifted past and suggested a Screaming Orgasm.

“Love those,” Mak blurted. When she realised her faux pas, she giggled and covered her mouth, then it occurred to her that she might look silly in that position, and she promptly placed her hands in her lap. She nodded and smiled and the waitress disappeared.

Oh, my God, I’ve lost it.

Mak stared at the TV screen closest to her. Big men in small pants. Everyone grunting and slapping each other’s butts. Curious men’s business.

The waitress returned and placed two small glasses on the table.

Two?

Mak didn’t really know what she was looking at. It must have showed, because the waitress began instructing her on how to drink the cocktail with the wildly pleasurable name. “Take the lime cordial into your mouth but don’t swallow it. Pour the Baileys in next. Let it sit in there, then shake your head vigorously from side to side. Then swallow.”

She must be having me on
.

Mak tried to pay her.

“This one’s on the house. Enjoy.”

Mak blinked and stared at the little glasses, which responded by swirling around in her vision for a moment. She blinked again and they were still. The waitress was gone. Mak was sure that everyone was watching. Was this an actual drink that people ordered?

Ah, what the hell.

She took the neon-green drink and poured it into her mouth. Straight cordial. Wham. Then the Baileys. She looked up and the waitress nodded at her from across the bar. Oh, yes, mustn’t forget to
shake
. She grinned at her with her mouth full and made a show of shaking her head around. She tried desperately not to laugh, but choked on a giggle and dribbled some of it down her chin.

Gulp.

Oh, good God!

Her head did a three-sixty. Every muscle in her body went to putty.

Mak suddenly felt much less self-conscious.

She gave the girl a thumbs up, and then slunk down in her seat.

She must have stared at her lap for a long time, because when she looked up, she found that someone was sitting next to her.

“…all by yourself,” the stranger was saying. He was smiling at her and shifting closer. “Lemme buy you a drink.”

Her mouth took forever to respond. Her tongue felt funny. “No, thanks. No more.”

He was still speaking. She concentrated on the movements his mouth was making, but still couldn’t make out the words. She leaned forward and squinted.

“…company. Come on, lemme getcha ’nother drink.”

Mak recoiled and said, “No. Fuff off.”

She blinked slowly, finally comprehending how horrendously drunk she had become, and when she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

She had to get out of there. She wasn’t just relaxed—she was off her face, and that was definitely not how she wanted to see Andy Flynn.

Somehow she made it to the exit. The sounds of football and top-forty music faded as she stepped out to the street and raised her hand for a cab. But there were none to be found.

Someone put a hand on her shoulder. She spun around, expecting the stranger with the confusing speech patterns who had approached her inside. Her head spun long after the one hundred and eighty degrees were up, and when her senses finally returned, she found herself nose to nose with Detective Andrew Flynn.

Her jaw fell slack and she stared. Her arm, which had come dangerously close to swatting him when she turned, still dangled high in the air.